Love, When You Are Loved Again
by justadram
Summary: Alice and her daughter come back to London after the death of her husband, Tarrant, and she finds a most unexpected friend in Hamish. Alice/Hamish
1. Prologue

**Title**: _Love, When You Are Loved Again_  
><strong>Author<strong>: just_a_dram  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Burton, Alice in Wonderland (2010)  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Alice/Hamish  
><strong>Rating<strong>: T  
><strong>Word Count<strong>: 20,019  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Alice and her daughter come back to London after the death of her husband, Tarrant, and she finds a most unexpected friend in Hamish.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: This is a work of fanfiction for which the author receives no profit.

* * *

><p>Prologue<p>

The pain was always there, lingering like a hollow place carved in her heart, but she had a child and she could not afford to fully indulge her pain as she might have cared to otherwise. She had come home to lick her wounds and build a life for herself and little Charlotte without her husband. Where he was now was wholly beyond her reach, and London, though a world away, was just a step through the gilded looking-glass.


	2. Returns

Returns

"I _am_ surprised she allowed Alice to stay with her. Just imagine what people will say."

Hamish could see that his mother felt this decision not only to be a mistake on Mrs. Kingsleigh's part, but a moment of triumph for herself. Her arched brow spoke volumes.

"Where else would you suggest that she stay, Mother?"

"That would not have been my primary concern," she said, sipping her tea noiselessly.

"No, I imagine not. Besides, while you might be worried about what the talk will be, Alice never was concerned what people said about her. I doubt that much has changed."

His mother set her china teacup down in its matching saucer with a small clink. "Alice was a headstrong girl, and she made very poor decisions for herself."

"She would no doubt challenge you on that assessment." Alice had never seemed to regret the decision to reject him, after all.

His mother ignored him, continuing, "Despite that, I wouldn't have believed her capable of _this_. The Kingsleighs will be ruined. No good family will receive them. If her mother was a little less sentimental, she would have told Alice to go back from whence she'd come."

Hamish stirred another scoop of sugar into his cooling tea, not so much because he enjoyed his tea very sweet—he did not—but because it occupied his hands and allowed him an excuse to avoid his mother's gaze. "Her husband is dead, Mother—that is why she's come home. I suspect there is very little to return to, should Mrs. Kingsleigh prove to be so unfeeling."

"You don't truly believe that, do you? _Husband_," she sniffed dismissively. "We never heard a word about this marriage in the five years she disappeared from London without a trace. It pains me to say it, but I believe there is a great falsehood being passed off on us all. I, however, am not fool enough to believe it."

Alice was frighteningly unconventional, but Hamish could not bring himself to believe the circulating rumors. Surely she would not give herself to a man outside of the bonds of holy matrimony. Give herself to a man who offered her nothing in return for her virtue, and who would leave her friendless with his child. No, surely she would never accept so little. Hamish, after all, had offered her everything, and she had refused him outright.

Unless of course, what he had to offer was a paltry thing. A title, a home in London, one in the country—security. Of course, by now he was fairly certain that Alice thought very little of what he had set before her in his proposal. Sometimes he imagined if he had thought to offer her something else altogether…

"Your father misguidedly believed in that girl and she proved herself to be a miserable ingrate."

Hamish looked over his teacup, raising it to his lips, sipped and then spoke, "That's a bit harsh: her ideas for expansion paid for your orangery, I believe." The slight flare of his mother's nostrils were the only sign that his comment had found its mark.

No, if Alice said she was a widow, he chose to believe her. She was not one to obfuscate the truth. If she had done something the rest of the world thought improper, she would think nothing of stating it outright. She was widowed. With a child, so it seemed. She had been married. Yes, to someone else—he would have to get used to the idea.

It was not the institution itself she objected to. It was him.

His mother dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the linen napkin. "No one will accept this fabrication of a marriage.

"I do."

It was clear that he was ruining his mother's sport. There was a time when he would not have stated his views quite so boldly to her. That was something Alice's rejection had taught him. If a woman could be so bold, he might at least learn to speak up to his mother. If he had done so earlier, the debacle of the engagement party might have been avoided altogether, for he had known Alice would not warm to a public forum anymore than he had been at ease with it. She might still have rejected him in private, but he would have saved himself public humiliation of the keenest kind.

Her lips pursed in agitation. "It's all very convenient."

"I've never heard widowhood referred to as such." Though, his mother had no doubt been very little inconvenienced by his own father's passing two years prior. He wondered if it would be the same for his wife, should he ever have one and have the misfortune to die first.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "And what do you say about the child, hmm?"

"The natural, hoped for result of marriage, Mother. Is it not?"

"Honestly, Hamish," she huffed. "Why you defend her is beyond me."

"Gentlemen are supposed to come to the aid of ladies, and Alice seems rather unfairly put upon at the moment."

"_Lady_," his mother said with a small toss of her head. "She is most certainly _not_ a lady." As if something unpleasant occurred to her, his mother whipped her head around to address him once more, her voice lowering an octave when she spoke, "Don't let me hear that you've paid her a social call. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly."

* * *

><p>Alice's mother stood before the large Carrara marble top table, eyeing up the silver tray placed upon it to hold receiving cards. Of late it had been empty more than not, but this afternoon one lone card awaited their return.<p>

"It's for you," her mother said, as she untied the silk ribbons on her wine red hat.

When Alice came forward to peer down at the card somewhat suspiciously, she had already disposed of her black cape, although she could not shake the smell of London as easily, which seemed to cling to her in a way she had never noticed before going to live in Underland, where the air was also fresh. She picked the card up to examine it. Her mother had very few callers. Alice had entertained none, but she had seen this card before: white, plain, black ink, with the upper left corner bent. Her fingers traced the engraved letters, trying to imagine the name becoming the man. With each appearance, the card filled her with dread, for she knew not what to make of it.

"Why does he continue to leave his card?" Alice asked, fingering the offending item gingerly.

"Hamish?"

Of course it was Hamish. Her mother knew it to be his card as well as Alice did. "Yes."

Her mother sighed, her hat dangling from her fingertips. "Heaven knows, my dear. You should be the last person in the world Lord Ascot would want to visit."

Alice looked over her shoulder at her mother as she let the card come to rest on the tray once more. "He doesn't hold that against me, does he?" She had never expressly apologized for her public rejection of his offer of marriage, but she hated to think of him being angry with her after all of these years. She did not think much of it at the time, but she knew she had humiliated him. She had been careless, immature, and thoughtless, and he had not deserved such treatment just because she could not like him. "I saved him a good deal of trouble by turning him down."

"I dare say you did," her mother replied archly. "And I suppose he does _not_ hold it against you, since this is the fourth card he has left."

Alice frowned. "Perhaps he means to scold me."

Her mother fixed her with a look that Alice wondered if she could ever learn to muster to level at Charlotte. "Come now, I don't think he would be so cruel."

She did not truly think so either. If her whispered widowhood had reached his ears, Hamish would not be so unkind as to pay her a visit so as to gloat over her loss.

They had played together as children: he a shy and awkward little boy, she a sickly and overly imaginative little girl. Until she had returned home and begun to receive his cards, she had not thought on that for years, but now memories of her more distant past occasionally served to distract her from her more recent tragedy. In twenty-six years, one accumulated a good deal of memories: some bad, some good. Alice was trying to learn to focus on the good once more. And really, Hamish had been a somewhat uninspiring playmate, but never unkind.

"I think," her mother began casually, "you might receive him."

"Oh, do you?" Alice asked, turning to lean against the table.

"It wouldn't hurt to have another friend, my dear."

Yes, they were rather short on friends these days, but she could not help but think that her mother meant more by the suggestion, and that made her more nervous than the card itself. She was long done with attempting to meet other people's expectations, and yet, her debt to her mother grew daily. A debt she had no notion of how to repay.

* * *

><p>He watched with barely contained anxiety as she extended her hand to him as if they were to conclude a business deal, as if she was a man, and not Alice Kingsleigh, standing before him for the first time since…<p>

The thought made color rush to his face, and he cursed his fair coloring.

"Hamish," she said a little questioningly, as she continued to extend her hand. "I've made a grave error, haven't I," she said, looking down at her hand, hanging there in the air.

Hamish overcame his shock by taking her hand and giving it a warm shake. What he hoped was a friendly shake, because as of yet he had not managed to say anything since being announced by the serving woman. He thanked his questionable luck that his palm was not a sweaty one, even as he felt himself being slowly overwhelmed by a fresh wave of nervousness as she pressed her other ungloved hand atop their clasped hands.

"I'm always making mistakes in London—that much has not changed, as you see," she commented, looking down now on their hands and then letting her eyes run back up to his face as he let her hands slip. "Can you forgive my blunder?"

"There's nothing to forgive," he finally managed. He winced at the rough, unused quality of his voice. Nothing could bring him to speak all morning, knowing as he did that he intended once more to attempt to visit Alice. Whether the possibility of actually seeing her or being disappointed once again had plagued him more, he could not tell.

"It's only the first of many blunders, for I suppose it will be rude to say it, but you seem rather taller than I remember.

He swallowed hard, wondering if this was only one of Alice's unseemly observations or something meant as a compliment. "That isn't something one hears at age eight and twenty every day. You are still wholly your own creature." Her words may not have been meant as a compliment, but he meant his as one. Alice was terrifyingly unconventional—a fact that intrigued him and made him feel vaguely as if he was mid stumble with no walking stick.

She did not exactly smile at his words, but her eyes seemed to soften and the muscles in her face relax. "That I am, and if you are good enough not to remind me of all my blunders, I shall be glad to see you, Hamish. My mother does well enough to keep me apprised of my mistakes."

He was fully conscious of the numerous times he had pointed out her mistakes. He had hoped to guide her, so she would be a little less eccentric, a little less open to criticism. He had tried to tell himself that it was to spare her the pain of disapproval, but he knew that it was also to spare himself. He had been selfish and spoiled and alarmed at the possibility of censure.

"Do young men continue to grow after their twenty-first birthday?" she inquired with a gleam of old Alice curiosity.

"I couldn't say," he answered rather stupidly.

"Well, I may be spending too much time with Charlotte to properly judge height after all." She looked down and to her right, and as if on cue, her child suddenly peered up from behind her black skirts. Alice smiled down on her, slipping her hand from the fold of her skirts to rest atop the child's blonde ringlet curls.

Alice looked back up at him, and he could only hope that she did not take note that he was helplessly staring at the little girl as if he had never seen a child before. She was lovely and small and most definitely real.

"This is Charlotte," Alice offered, and the child moved from behind her skirts to inspect the visitor.

"Hello," Charlotte lisped.

He nodded, tugging awkwardly at his cuffs. "Hello," he finally responded, after clearing his throat uselessly, for the frog stayed resolutely in place.

"You didn't know," Alice stated evenly.

"Yes, of course I knew," he quickly corrected. He had known, but seeing the child was something different altogether. His eyes darted momentarily to Alice's as he dug in his pocket and produced a shiny, red piece of boiled sweets. Her eyes seemed to wordlessly ask whether he would find this child as awkward a personage as the rest of London society did. "I hope you don't mind," he said, although if she did, it was too late, for Charlotte had taken it from his hand and popped it in her mouth with great alacrity.

If what his mother whispered was true, there was not much money in Alice's purse for luxuries—even penny sweets, so the child might be unaccustomed to such a treat.

"Sweets before dinner was just the sort of thing her father would have encouraged," Alice said cheerfully enough, although she finished by biting her lip, pulling it tight across her teeth and breathing deeply through her nose. Whatever feeling had discomposed her passed, and she spoke, looking down at her child, "What do you say, Charlotte?"

"Thank you," the child mumbled around her candy.

"Mother will be horrified when she gets sticky handprints on the divan," Alice observed as Charlotte scampered across the room to crawl atop the furniture.

"Well, it wouldn't be fitting if one of us didn't end up disappointing your mother, would it?"

Alice bit back a most inelegant sound. "Hamish!"

"That was dreadful," he said, frowning down at his shoes. He had no idea what prompted him to say something so undignified. Perhaps her unconventionality was catching.

"No, just the truth. I'm just surprised to hear you speak so. Surprised and more than a little pleased," she said with a sly grin.

He liked making her smile, as he had never had much success in it before even when he had wanted to. It prompted the growth of a certain warmth in his chest that was a bit like pride but better.

"The pair of us are terrible disappointments. Or at very least I am. Come, sit down," she urged, gesturing to a chair.

Hamish paused and shifted on his feet, feeling unaccountably courageous, when he announced haltingly, "She looks quite a bit like you, you know, when you were five."

"Four," Charlotte said, holding fours fingers up as a visual reminder from her perch.

"Ah," he said, "four was a good year for your mother. Was it not, Alice?"

"I don't remember, but then you were seven at the time, and perhaps your memory is better than mine. Shall I trust to your recollection of the particulars?"

Yes, he knew her. Had known her. For most of his life. He did not quite _understand_, but he knew her and her eccentricities, and he was here, offering friendship. He did not know how to put that into words exactly, however, and so he sat stiffly, watching a spot on the rug.

Unexpectedly, she stretched out her hand and her fingers brushed the cuff of his coat, lingering for a moment until his gaze dropped to where she touched him.

"I'm very sorry, you know."

He did not mean it to be, but his reply was somewhat crisp, "I believe _I_ am supposed to express my sympathies to _you_."

"Well, yes, but if you were following proper protocol, Hamish, you would not have come at all."

This much was true: she had sent not card indicating that in her mourning she was now receiving visitors, but he had come anyway. "And if I had waited to receive your card?"

"You would be waiting a very long time, I own, but you should understand that I'm a little ashamed of myself. We have not spoken since…"

The hand she had just very nearly touched gripped his knee tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. "Let's not speak on it, Alice." He could not bear to speak on it. He had done his best to forget that day, while learning a painful lesson from it.

She nodded. "As you like."

"And…I am sorry. Sorry about your husband. I should have said that first."

"But you've said it, which is what matters. I'm glad you thought to visit me."

His chest tightened. Alice was glad of him. That is when Hamish knew for certain that he would come again. He would happily put aside filial duty and visit Alice as often as she would have him and still be glad of it.


	3. Foundations

Foundations

"How did you find Hamish, my dear?" her mother asked with practiced disinterest, which Alice knew better than to believe.

"He looked well." Alice shuffled Charlotte's alphabet cards in her hands, although the little girl was already tucked in her bed for the evening and no doubt dreaming of sugar plums and faeries. She attempted to turn the conversation to a safer subject, "He brought Charlotte some boiled sweets."

"Wasn't that uncommonly thoughtful?"

It was unexpected and her spirits were buoyed by the gesture. She had feared Hamish might be as unnerved by her daughter as everyone else seemed to be. She was aware of the whispers. No one truly believed her to have been married, which meant that they believed her child to be illegitimate. She could take any scorn, but heaped upon her daughter? Her face flushed hotly at the thought, but she refused to let the feeling overtake her, focusing instead on the brightly colored cards in her lap.

"She liked him well enough for it," Alice agreed blandly.

Her mother smiled at her over her needlework. "That sounds promising." Alice frowned, but refused to acknowledge her mother's meaning. "A child needs a father," her mother finally pressed, when Alice remained dumb.

"I did well enough without one," Alice responded a little spitefully. She could not help herself: Charlotte _had_ a father. Every day she saw bits and pieces of Tarrant in their daughter. Her love of rhyme books, her growing collection of bobbins, and her soft little lisp. Even her flashes of temper reminded Alice fondly of her husband, as they both repented of their outbursts so quickly afterward and seemed somewhat baffled by their occurrence. No, Charlotte could be no one's child but Tarrant's. The very thought of Hamish fulfilling that role made Alice suspect that her mother was living in a land of faerie far less real than Underland.

"Forgive me. I can see that my opinion is not wanted."

"I'm sorry, Mother." She said it because she _was_ sorry: sorry that she had spoken so harshly, and yet, she could not regret the feeling that inspired it. "I think it's best if you put an end to that hope. Hamish is a grown man, who knows his own mind, and I doubt very much he intends to extend anything but friendly kindness towards me. And you know very well how I feel about the possibility."

Her mother shook her head, "I don't think you yet know what it means to be lonely, my dear."

Her reply was clipped: "I think I do." Only, she could not think of the endless years of loneliness stretching out before her right now unless she wanted to cry herself to sleep. She began again more calmly, "It was good to see Hamish. I was happy he did not seem angry with me, and I would never turn away friendship." But that is all it would ever be.

Yes, she could welcome Hamish's silent offer of friendship. She could not help but think that Tarrant would have found Hamish very odd. All restraint and things unsaid, but there was an peculiar comfort to Hamish's constraint. It spared her having to open herself up, and right now, she was too raw to expose her inner self to the world or even her own mother. He might be just the sort of friend she could actually stand to have.

* * *

><p>It had not taken long before the weekly visit to the Kingsleigh residence had become his favorite day of the week. While he had initially feared having nothing to say to a tiny little girl with wide green eyes, as the months passed, he had soon found that Alice's child was quite easy to interact with, rather like her mother had been once.<p>

When he had been shy and awkward, constantly chided by his mother to be more this and less that, Alice had been the wan little girl that sometimes came for tea, who chattered away without much effort on his part—a vast relief from the passel of stronger boys, who could trump him in every sport, turned their noses up at his interest in botany, and mocked his stutter. Of course Alice's chatter had mostly been nonsense, but it was rather intriguing nonsense about floating cats and talking mice and violent queens and tea parties. They were the sorts of things his mother would have shaken her head at, which is why he had never shared any of it with her—and that was no different at the present either, as he kept his visits to the Kingsleighs as beneath his mother's notice as possible.

It was the same sort of nonsense that Charlotte now pontificated on with such unquestioned certainty that it never occurred to him that he might scoff at her reports. He listened to them with quiet reserve, which earned him the little girl's unwavering respect more quickly than even his proffered sweets had done. Listening was no hardship, as he sincerely enjoyed her charming company, but she also proved to be a convenient reason for paying the Kingsleighs an unexpected visit or two outside of his weekly one.

"Charlotte shows great interest in flowers," he observed, as he crossed his leg over his knee, his other boot scratching in the pea gravel of the modest gated garden behind the Kingsleigh townhouse.

Charlotte was bent over amongst the white roses, peeking out of them and whispering something to herself that he could not make out. He would have moved to ask her, but he did not want to leave this afternoon without having accomplished one thing, and that required actually engaging Alice in purposeful conversation. Something which had become somewhat easier with the passage of time, and yet Hamish still felt ill at ease. As he had grown older, he had learnt to deal with uncomfortable situations by acting superior and mildly cross. That was not the impression he wanted to leave Alice with, however.

What he wanted Alice to think of him made his hands shake. She was almost impossible to impress, her standards were so lofty.

Alice smiled indulgently at Charlotte. "Yes, I think she keeps expecting the roses to talk back to her."

He fingered the knob of his cane with his white gloved index finger. "She's told me they do."

"They _did_ you mean," Alice corrected. "They did once, but they don't anymore, for London flowers never have anything to say. Less interesting, I suppose, but also a good deal less cheeky."

He laughed a little awkwardly. He was accustomed to Charlotte's charming flights of fancy, but there was something incongruous about Alice's continued whimsy, when she was so obviously a woman grown. The very thought—the acknowledgement that Alice was a _woman_, a proper one who had married, shared a man's bed, and had a child—made him look back out towards Charlotte and not the woman before him. He tried very hard not to think such things, but sometimes it was impossible. She was more a woman than he was a man. One tawdry experience in Paris did not make a man. Besides, his mother still insisted on selecting the fabric for his suits.

His mouth was dry, but he did not reach for his glass of lemonade—that would require a steadiness of hand he feared he did not currently possess—before suggesting with measured calm, "Perhaps we could all go to Hyde Park, where she can enjoy the flower beds in bloom." He would like to take the child to see his mother's orchids and her coveted orangery, but he did not think it wise to expose Alice or Charlotte to his mother's cool looks. Alice might take it into her head to give his mother a piece of her mind—a tantalizing but terrifying prospect.

"Yes, that would be lovely, Hamish. I think she'd enjoy that very much."

_Would Alice enjoy it too?_ He could not bring himself to ask. "Day of your choosing next week if you like."

"Any day will do. You know we don't have a fashionable schedule to keep. You're our only friend."

While he did not want Alice to be friendless, the thought of being special to her in this way made his palms begin to sweat inside his gloves.

When he felt brave enough to look away from Alice's daughter's antics and face her once more, he realized that she had grown serious. Hamish felt as if he was being carefully evaluated before she spoke, "There's a whole world you don't know about, Hamish. Are you willing to believe that?"

"Yes, of course." Why, he had never even completed his tour of the Continent, as he had developed the most wracking cough half way through and his mother had become convinced that the Ascot succession was in danger, so he had been obliged to turn back. He was well aware that Alice outdistanced him in terms of experience—all sorts of experiences.

"A world where I could swear to you that flowers will quite happily insult your mode of dress as soon as greet you."

He shifted in his seat. "You've always been very imaginative, Alice, and…"

He could not think how to finish, but she jumped in, sparing him the discomfort of a stretch of silence. "I know you're good enough not to disabuse Charlotte of her notions, but if you would not disabuse me of mine…I'd be very grateful. There's no one I can speak to frankly. No one I can tell about the life we lived."

A lock of her wavy blonde hair had escaped its simple arrangement and she tucked it behind her ear. Hamish was seized with the most impossible urge to perform the service for her, to see if it felt as soft as it looked. But that was impossible, and not just because a pair of gloves prevented him. If he took such a liberty, he would lose her for certain. Alice did not care much for propriety, but she would not welcome such a liberty from him nonetheless. This much he knew.

"At first I didn't want to talk about any of it, but sometimes…I don't need you to believe, but if you could just listen to me if I do feel like talking." She paused to wet her lips, and suddenly his silk cravat felt very tight about his throat. She looked down at her gloved hands, pillowed in her dark skirts. "I seem to have noticed that you're a rather good listener," she said, nodding towards Charlotte. "The strong and silent type," she finished with a quirk of her lips.

Hamish could not help but chuckle. He knew he had never been described thus. Alice had a very odd way of looking at the world. "I'm only quiet, because I'm trying to frame my next sentence, so I won't embarrass myself," he admitted, although he had not intended on making such an avowal. "You don't suffer from that disability."

"No, but Margaret and Mother rather wish sometimes that I did. There are so few people to embarrass nowadays," Alice said with a shrug. "And I do try my best not to give Mother too much pain."

"I've given up almost entirely on trying to satisfy my mother, you know," he added, vaguely hoping that she would be proud of him. Not that he generally did anything shocking.

"Yes, you are here, after all. All of London must think it very odd."

That was his lone rebellion, and if his mother was wise to it, she had not yet said a word. He suspected that her silence on the subject was meant to say volumes. If she should say something, however, he knew very well how he would respond. He sat up further in his chair. "I don't care about that, Alice." Not as much as he should perhaps.

"That's good of you," she said, her shoulders sinking slightly, as if weighed down by something. "I miss it, you know, where Charlotte was born. I miss it a great deal. Especially when people are unkind."

"You could go back." He barely managed to say it, for he did not wish it. He wanted Alice here, where he might come and sit at her side and listen to her confessions. Her only friend. Even if he was a terribly selfish friend, which he suspected he was.

She stared off blankly. "Maybe I'll tell you about it someday." She shook her head. "But, no, I don't think I'll ever go back. Without Tarrant, it was too painful. It would be too painful. A person has to look forward."

In all their time together, she had never spoken her husband's Christian name before. He now had a name for this faceless man: Tarrant.

"I'm being maudlin," Alice said, giving herself a shake. "How can one be maudlin with the perfume of spring in the air? Tinted with the stink of smoke, but spring nonetheless?"

He could not quite bring himself to say anything else about her previous life—as her emotions seemed so close to the surface that they threatened to overwhelm him. Sometimes he had to practice the right thing to say, for it did not always come naturally for him, but there was no time for that now. He felt twitchy, and he longed to latch onto her change of subject. "The air will be better in Hyde Park," he promised. He would promise her almost anything presently, which is why it would be best to cut his visit short before he exposed himself. He could come again tomorrow if he truly wanted. He did not think Alice would mind and Charlotte was always glad to see him.

Yes, Charlotte proved to be very easy for Hamish to befriend. What was the greater surprise, however, was that somehow along the way, he had managed to win Alice over as well.

It taught him to hope. That someday he might be something more to her.

* * *

><p>Alice wished she had some knowledge of legal affairs, but even her disastrous experience in business had not fully acquainted her with the law. A lawyer would be expensive. Too expensive. And yet, she had to do something to ensure that her daughter would be protected, taken care of in the event…<p>

"Hamish," she said softly, not entirely wishing to disrupt Hamish and Charlotte, who had been engaged for a quarter of an hour in a game of How, Why, When, and Where. Charlotte may have been four, but she was preternaturally good at games.

He looked up at her from his place on the floor beside her daughter, and the blue of his eyes struck her, as he nervously tossed his head, so that a shock of ginger hair that had fallen out of place went dutifully back in place. "Yes, Alice?" He looked slightly embarrassed, as if he had thought she had not yet noticed that he was arranged on the floor, playing at parlor games with a four year old. He suspected no doubt that she might think it beneath him.

As usual, she felt something other than scorn stir in her chest, as she watched Charlotte happily at play with Hamish. His friendship had been a godsend to their family. The moment of reflection passed, however, and he was scrambling rather gracelessly to his feet so as to join her on the divan.

"Do you think you could assist me with something?" Alice asked, as he sat alongside her.

Alice frowned at his fidgeting hands. Anytime Hamish was asked to be useful, it made him uncomfortable, she had noticed. As if he was more used to thinking of himself as useless.

"What can I help you with?"

"There's a legal matter. A matter of drawing up a will."

His brows drew together. "For your mother?"

"For me, I'm afraid." Alice had not thought it possible for Hamish to grow any paler than he was generally, but she was wrong. The bob of his ascot alerted her to his involuntary swallowing. She reached over and placed her hand over his own. She withdrew it quickly when he jerked as if he had been shocked by a tetchy doorknob. "I'm quite all right, Hamish. It's just that I have Charlotte to consider. I need to set my things in order. I'm trying to be practical."

"You haven't much practice," he responded a little haltingly. "I could recommend someone," he said, recovering some of his composure, "who would be able to draw something up for you."

"Someone who wouldn't expect too much in payment?" Alice asked lightly. "I'm sure you haven't noticed, but we're in rather embarrassed financial straits." Hamish cleared his throat, and she could tell by his shocked face that he considered this statement a greater transgression than even her fanciful stories. It would not _be_ Hamish if this uncommon admission did not make him uncomfortable. "I'm sorry I've said it, Hamish, for your sake, but the fact of the matter is that I need your help…"

"I have a friend," he interrupted. "He'll do it as a favor to me. Say no more."

Alice nodded. "Thank you, Hamish. I knew I could rely on you." He was anything but useless.

"You're worried about Charlotte's future," he added apprehensively, as if he was not sure he should voice her concerns aloud, as if he was unwillingly breaking his own request to _say no more_. "You needn't be, Alice. If God forbid…" She watched him with great interest as his gaze settled on Charlotte. "I'd see to it that she was taken care of. I wouldn't forget her. You can rely on that," he finished softly.

Alice felt tears sting the corners of her eyes.

"Forgive me," he stammered.

"For what?" she asked, attempting a smile.

"I've overstepped myself."

"No, not at all. You haven't. I'm just…" Should she be astonished? She was.

Alice fumbled in her skirts for a handkerchief. She was not good about carrying them, for she had never had a need as long as she was in Underland. Tarrant always had a great selection on hand in a variety of bright colors, trimmed in fantastical ribbon and lace. She sighed heavily, when she could find none, but just as she was about to give way to unbidden tears, Hamish pressed a starched white handkerchief into her hand.

No, anything but useless.


	4. Complications

There is some lovely fanart that was made for this chapter, located here: pics . livejournal . com /just_a_dram/ pic /0003z9dc/ (just remove the spaces!).

Complications

They made it a practice to walk with great frequency the parks in London. Charlotte examining the flora and fauna and Alice entertaining Hamish with her shocking views and impossible stories, and even though the summer weather had grown warmer, they still ventured out sans carriage, since Charlotte preferred it that way. She never would willingly submit to being shut up inside a carriage, when she could be under her own power, after having been raised traipsing around the Hat House on foot.

Even cobblestones seemed an oddity to her. Indeed, just a moment earlier a cobblestone had caught her shoe—something a friendly gnarled root would have never done—and sent her tumbling forward. She would have ended up hands and knees with spoilt gloves and torn stockings on the greasy cobblestones, except that Hamish darted forward with a quickness that seemed wholly out of character and put her to rights, so that she moved before them as if nothing had happened.

Hamish was so good with Charlotte and so reliable, Alice reflected. He was just as likely to be found on his hands and knees nowadays, serving as a pony for a rather demanding rider, and slightly red faced at being discovered by the rider's amused mother, as he was to assist her in more proper ways, such as his neat handling of the problem of setting up a trust for Charlotte. Steady, gentlemanly Hamish, whose hat was much too plain, much too black, and lacking in an extravagance of hat pins or sashes for her taste. Nevertheless, he would have made someone a very good sort of husband, Alice thought fondly, as she gazed up at him in the afternoon sunshine. That had never occurred to her before, as she had always been concerned with thinking what an unsuitable match he would have been for herself. But for some other young lady?

"Why did you never marry?" she asked, her curiosity causing her thoughts to spill from her head like an overfilled teacup. "It needn't have been one of those dreadful Chattaway girls, but I'm sure there was…or is perhaps some lady in your acquaintance that you might marry." Her thoughts fluttered free form through her mind, regrettably working themselves out only _after_ she spoke. If there was some lady, that lady might resent him spending so much time at the Kingsleigh house, Alice considered, and found that she did not entirely like the prospect of Hamish having a sweetheart. She wished almost immediately that she could back away from the topic at hand; she would not want him to think her a busy body old maid with nothing better to do than urge him to marry—that was the job of mothers more decidedly traditional than herself—so she added for good measure, "If you cared to."

His gaze skittered away from hers, but in that brief moment Alice thought she saw reproach. With her arm linked through his, she could not properly regain his attention unless he desired to bestow it upon her, however; so try as she might, she could not confirm his censure. His gaze was resolutely schooled on Charlotte, who continued to skip and scamper just in front of them, managing miraculously—or perhaps magically—to stay clean in her white, eyelet frock and striped stockings.

"Hamish," she said softly, squeezing his elbow. "I'm not your mother. You can confess it to me and I won't tell a soul that you prefer to slurp your soup at night alone without a wife to scold you," she whispered, attempting to tease him into an admission.

"Don't ruin a nice day, Alice," he responded steely.

"I had no idea of doing any such thing," she replied. She was torn between relief and disappointment that Hamish insisted on being stalwartly impersonal. Her unease forced her to push him a bit further, a terrible habit she had not yet managed to quell. "I suppose by asking you a personal question I've trampled on your comforting code of etiquette, haven't I?"

"I'm not averse to all personal questions, and I rather resent the implication that I'm rigid—that I'm as dull as a walking encyclopedia," he responded rather too loudly to be considered polite.

"I'd think an encyclopedia with feet would be anything but dull," she said, tugging on his elbow. "Do you imagine it would wear patents?" But he gave no response to her attempt at cheerful madness. "I don't think you're dull, Hamish. Whatever has made you so cross?"

"Nothing," he said gruffly.

"Are we not friends?" She could not bear for him to be angry with her, or to think that he, the man she truly counted as her only friend now, would always be more comfortable discussing the condition of the roads with her than sharing anything personal with her. Once his reserve had been a comfort, but now it began to feel like a barrier.

He snorted. "Yes, I suppose we are." She could see his neck growing red above his collar. "And as you are _simply_ my _friend_, I don't think you need be privy to the workings of my heart."

Alice blinked, silenced by his evident distress. In the six months since Hamish's card had first appeared on the bare silver tray in their entry hall, he had become not only her only friend, but the one upon whom she felt she could rely and call upon for all manner of things. It cut her that he did not feel the same.

Perhaps there was only one woman with whom he could rightly share his true feelings. Perhaps her teasing had unintentionally hit the mark too closely. She frowned to herself, hoping very much it was not one of the Chattaway sisters, who had not surprisingly remained unmarried in the intervening years. Although, when she attempted to imagine a better match for Hamish, her mind revolted and refused.

He stopped abruptly. "Perhaps we should turn back. The sun is dreadfully strong."

"Botheration," she mumbled to herself. The sun was not all that strong, and she had her parasol to protect herself, but she was not going to argue the point. "Charlotte," she called out, her voice sounding thin and strained. "Come to Mother: we're going home."

* * *

><p>"You should know that people are beginning to talk," his mother said, her eyes meeting him over the table, where they dined alone.<p>

"This is why I prefer the clubs: there is a great deal less gossip that goes on there." He did not actually like his club all that much, since he was bollocks at billiards and was not terribly adept at meaningless conversation over cigars, but it was often preferable to an evening spent idle with his mother. Those were his choices as a bachelor, unless he was invited to dine elsewhere, and lately his invitations had admittedly slowed to a trickle. Maybe his mother did not exaggerate: he may have become the focus of gossip.

She frowned at him. "She's been a bad influence on you, I'm afraid. You were never so unreliable before."

His mother spoke as if he was a little boy. "She?" he asked with feigned confusion that made his mother's nostrils flare.

"Alice Kingsleigh, of course."

"Ah, I see. Although, Alice _Hightopp_, I believe, is more accurate. She's a widow, as I'm sure you know."

His mother sniffed. "Maybe she is and maybe she isn't."

"She is. She's worn enough black to suit anyone's demands, I should think." He did prefer Alice in blue, but he would never voice that opinion to anyone.

"You would know, Hamish, seeing as you spend all your time there."

"I didn't think you'd noticed," he replied with a bland smile. He knew he was antagonizing her, but this subject made him feel unaccountably bold. Perchance Alice had had an effect on him after all.

"Don't think I don't know where you were on Tuesday, when I would have had you escort me to the flower show."

If he was but ten years younger, he had no doubt his mother would have thought very little of shaking her finger at him, but he was at least nominally the man of this house now, he was Lord Ascot, heir to centuries of tradition and power.

Hamish cut a sliced potato in half with a quick motion of his knife and fork, as he spoke, "Would you care to see my appointment book?" Whatever his mother suspected, he had not been at the Kingsleigh's. He had not been there in several weeks, after parting with Alice petulantly, his pride stung from her questions about his love life, which so obviously indicated that her interest in it was purely friendly.

"You're spending much too much time with her and her daughter. Walking across half of London, no less, where everyone can see you." His mother punctuated her disapproval by stabbing a piece of the chicken fricassee—Hamish would have preferred roast pork, but his mother always instructed the cook to avoid meals she was certain would be hard on her son's delicate digestion, Lord Ascot or no—on her plate with more force than wholly necessary.

"I'm sorry if my kindness to a family friend has brought unflattering attention your way, Mother."

"The Kingsleighs are no friends of _ours_, Hamish. They have fallen much too far for that, I assure you."

He rested his knife across the plate, and the serving man behind him stepped forward seamlessly to retrieve it. His mother held his gaze, daring him to disagree. His mother's plate was likewise cleared, leaving her nothing left to stab, but she still managed to look darts at him.

He was well aware of the Kingsleighs' fall from their always precarious perch on the social ladder; there was no need to deny it. "Well then, they are friends of _mine_."

"I suppose she asks for your assistance quite often? Plays upon your kindness? Those Kingsleighs were always after whatever they could get."

He would not honor that with a response. Alice was much too proud to ask for his material assistance. He knew what it had meant for her to come to him on behalf of Charlotte, what that would have cost her if she had felt they were not friends, if they did not deal as equals. The very notion was such an affront, that if dessert was not still waiting to be served, he would have put an end to this conversation by leaving the room, but there would be no peace in his house if he stormed off before dessert was served and thereby insulted and inconvenienced the cook. And admittedly, Hamish did enjoy a nice pudding.

"You once thought her good enough for me," he reminded his mother.

His mother picked up her glass, although she did not bring it to her lips. "For purely aesthetic reasons."

Yes, his mother had dreamt of babies prettier than her own had been. "She still has good bone structure and fine teeth, you'll be happy to hear then."

"Mark my words: she means to trap you, so they can lift themselves back up—higher than before," his mother said with great confidence, her shoulders drawn straight, head held high. "To prey upon your sympathy for that misbegotten child of hers."

"That's quite enough, thank you," Hamish demanded, his voice very nearly raised. He would not have either Charlotte or Alice spoken about in such a manner by anyone. Let alone his mother under his own roof. "Alice would still no more think of having me than she would consider attending one of your wretched luncheons. She hasn't any interest and thinks on me as nothing but a friend." The relief on his mother's face at this made Hamish ball his hands in his lap. He did not normally confess his feelings to anyone, but her haughty insistence piqued him into an angry declaration. "Even though I might wish it otherwise."

The crystal glass in her hand shook. "Hamish! God forbid!"

"And if she would have me, Mother, it would be your job to welcome her into our family with civility and compassion."

"You mean to ask her, you little fool."

"No, I'm not that big a fool."

He knew of no other women who would set off for Asia. None other that would turn down a marriage proposal from a man materially and socially better off than herself. None that insisted on being so wholly herself despite what people might think. He liked her better for all of it, even if it frightened him no small amount.

He should have never dreamt of winning Alice's heart. Her friendship should have been enough. And now that it might be lost, dashed by his own hands, he knew he must get it back.

He stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. He did not think he could even stomach a treacle pudding—his very favorite—any longer.

* * *

><p>"Hamish hasn't been by in some time," her mother observed over her mending.<p>

Five weeks. Alice was sure enough of time Above, which tended to be rather more regular than Below, to know the number of weeks that had passed since Hamish had left Charlotte and herself at their townhouse's doorstep, his cane angrily tapping on the sidewalk as he walked away.

Charlotte felt the passage of Time as well, although she was generally not on good terms with Him—her bedtime, for example, was often a much maligned hour—taking after her father in this as well. Yes, Charlotte had noticed the days as they passed, mentioning more than once that she missed Uncle Hamish. Alice had made excuses for him, for she knew not what else to do.

A letter of apology might be necessary, but Alice so hated formalities such as letters. It would be so much easier to see him and clasp his hand and speak what she did not care to put to paper.

"I think he might have other more pressing engagements," Alice said, rolling some fragments of yarn into a tight ball for the amusement of Charlotte's new little grey kitten, Mally—Alice was certain the namesake would not appreciate the dubious distinction—given to her for her fifth birthday.

"Oh?"

"Is he overwhelmed with haberdashery?" Charlotte lisped, and Alice felt as if her world tilted for a moment. Charlotte had often heard that excuse as a wee one, but just the word—haberdashery—had been too much a mouthful for her to repeat. It was said to her as an explanation for any number of reasons. Why Faither could not join them in the vegetable garden. Why he needed to stay up much later than she did. Why he was needed at the palace. Why his hands were so terribly stained. Yes, she had heard it often enough, but more often than not, Tarrant had happily put aside haberdashery—what he would have once thought an impossibility!—so as to be with his family.

The foundation of the house was no doubt solid enough, but she felt an uneasy shift nonetheless. The wound was still fresh enough—a year and six months had gone by since Tarrant's passing—but ever since Hamish's absence, the wound had bothered her more than it had in several months. She hoped very much that she had not lost Hamish as a friend through her impertinence.

"I think perhaps Uncle Hamish might have other young ladies to visit," Alice explained, tossing the ball of yarn down. "Or rather," she said, addressing her mother, "one in particular? I take it Hamish has a sweetheart."

Her mother frowned. "That seems unlikely."

"Truly? You would have had me marry him once. Surely there is a great deal to recommend Hamish to a young woman."

Her mother cleared her throat with a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "I'm glad to hear you say so, although I merely meant to say that I doubt Hamish is visiting some other young lady. _Not_ that he couldn't attract one if he so chose."

The misunderstanding should not have embarrassed Alice as much as it did, but she felt as if her insides were twisting. She brushed off the feeling by bending down and uselessly arranging the black velvet ribbon in Charlotte's curly locks. It was useless, because the ribbon always ended up eschew, no matter how many times Alice or her mother attempted to retie it. The blue ribbon around Mally's neck was likewise always coming undone.

"What would make you think such a thing, my dear?" her mother asked.

"I may have teased him a little bit."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"It's good for him," Alice explained, smiling despite herself. "Hamish needs teasing. Otherwise he takes himself too seriously." She paused, fiddling with her apron. "Only, I think perhaps he took offense this time. You haven't heard anything about either of the Chattaway girls having an upcoming announcement, have you?"

"I haven't spoken with Mrs. Chattaway, Alice."

Of course not. Who amongst their old acquaintances still spoke to her mother? "I'll never forgive Hamish is he marries someone as stupid as Fiona or Faith."

"I very much doubt such a plan has ever entered his mind. Has it never occurred to you why Hamish spends so much of his time here?"

Charlotte crawled after the kitten, who was insisting on demonstrating some independence that required escaping Charlotte's yellow skirts. Alice watched the quick retrieval of the mewling kitten, and it struck her that Hamish had not even seen the kitten, it was such a new addition to their little family, and that made her curiously sad. Not just the kitten: he had missed Charlotte's birthday celebration. There had been the very generous gift he sent, wrapped with a wide satin bow, and clearly selected with great care, but he had been absent. "He's very fond of Charlotte."

"I dare say he is, but surely that's not the only reason he visits, hmm?"

Alice choked on a laugh, as she twisted the apron tighter in her fingers. "Hamish never did care for me, Mother. It was an arrangement on his side as much as mine."

"He's told you that, has he?"

"No. Hamish would never be so direct as to express himself in that manner." Sometimes Alice wondered that Hamish ever managed to express himself at all.

"At the expense of speaking in proverbs, actions speak louder than words. Hamish risks a great deal by coming to see you."

"_Charlotte_," Alice stubbornly corrected.

"Don't be dim," her mother chided somewhat harshly, as she plied her needle with unnecessary force, darning a hole that must be fixed, for their budget did not include new stockings this month.

Her mother was already beginning to slip into genteel poverty, in addition to having lost most of her friends. With herself and Charlotte as an additional burden she would eventually slip further. Alice hated to think that she would be the cause of her mother's discomfort, for little things like fresh flowers in the entry hall did make such a difference in her spirits. But what was she to do? She had been miserable apprenticing for the company, and once the former Lord Ascot passed away there was no one to stand by her should she choose that particular route once more. She supposed Hamish would do so if she asked, but the idea of potentially making a mess of his business ventures did not appeal to her in the least.

Alice could feel color staining her cheeks—shamefaced at the thought of Hamish feeling more for her than she had previously assumed and at being so hopelessly in her mother's debt with no way to assist her. She knew her mother believed there to be a solution to all their problems.

And perhaps there was. Only, she liked him much too much to take him so as to solve a problem.


	5. Openings

Openings

"I've come to apologize."

Alice's lips parted slightly, looking for all the world as if she would not have been more surprised if Hamish had announced he had come to sit with her on the ceiling for afternoon tea. He wished that she would not be quite so shocked by his apology.

"I thought perhaps it was I who had something for which to apologize," she said. "Some great blunder I'd committed that kept you away."

Did he still scold her and correct her so much that she expected nothing less? "I shouldn't have stayed away." He was ashamed of it.

"Charlotte will be glad to see you. Only, you've just missed her: she's out with Mother."

His face contorted slightly. "That's a shame. I've had no one to correct my posture at tea." Charlotte was a stickler for proper tea party etiquette—although her rules were a rather bizarre mixture of the rules to which Hamish was accustomed and other fanciful rules, such as switching places mid tea, that seemed illogical—and she was rather bossy, when given free rein. Hamish was hopelessly indulgent with her, but Alice had once said that Charlotte's father had been no different. Hamish could not put into words what it meant to him to have Alice draw a comparison between himself and the little girl's father. "Did she like the dolhouse?"

"She adores it. I feel you should know, however, as the sender, that there are very shocking things going on in that house."

"Truly?"

"Oh, yes. A frightful disregard for housekeeping, for one. She needs someone to do the voices of the servants, who wait upon the little girl that reigns over the dollhouse in absolute fashion, and therefore, is quite above clearing dishes. Is that worrisome?"

"That she rules with an iron fist? I believe that means she merely takes after her mother," he tried, seeing how she would take his attempt at banter.

"No, Hamish. Is it worrisome that she thought _you_ would be particularly skilled at giving voice to her servants?"

Her bright smile gave him further courage, so he did not give second thought to the notion that Charlotte considered him born to serve. "I dare say Charlotte knows best. I'll be back again soon," he promised, "as long as you've forgiven me."

"There's nothing to forgive," Alice rushed over his last few words to assure him. "I was the one who was dreadfully inappropriate."

"You were only being…" Hamish fumbled for the right word.

"Rudely curious, I own it."

"No, you expressed surprise that I never married, but I was just as surprised once to find that you _had_ married. I'd just never confessed it."

Alice stiffened momentarily.

Hamish had no intention of calling her marriage into question, like everyone else seemed so eager to do, so he attempted to explain himself better, although it caused his stomach to flip and flop. "I convinced myself after you rejected my proposal that you meant to never marry. It was something I told myself, I suppose. To ease the burn." He coughed into his closed fist.

She tilted her head down, smiling ruefully over her nose at him. "I thought we weren't supposed to talk on that, Hamish."

Yes, that had been one of the earliest rules between them—do not mention the engagement, even if it was to apologize. Alice had believed him to be unfeeling and unaffected by her rejection of him, and he had been happy enough to maintain the falsehood. Happy enough to let her believe that the idea had been wholly his mother's. "Well, if you can speak of talking flowers, I suppose I can bear to mention your refusing me."

Her shoulders shrugged in a silent laugh. "I suppose you're right."

"Did you ever even for a moment consider accepting me that day at our engagement party?" he asked, trying to fight the tide of indignation that rose up inside of him at the visceral memory of her walking away from him, leaving him on one knee.

"Yes, of course. It was the expressed wish of both of our families. Yes, of course I considered it, but as it turned out, you are simply more dutiful than I am." Alice spoke more softly, "That is an admirable quality, you know. In a husband or otherwise."

She still believed he had done it out of duty, but then, he had said nothing to make her believe otherwise. "Not enough to induce you to marry me, however," he offered. He smoothed his trouser legs with a slightly trembling hand, attempting to summon the steeliness of spirit he so greatly admired in Alice herself. "So, if you _were_ induced to marry, terribly headstrong girl that you were," he said with attempted levity, "I know you must have cared greatly for him."

Power, position, security, titles, comfort—none of those things would have induced Alice Kingsleigh to marry, and he doubted Alice Hightopp felt any differently about the subject even though she could use those things now more than she could before. How often had he seen signs of economic distress in the Kingsleigh home and wished to assure Alice that he would not only see to Charlotte's care, should the need arise, he would care for all of them if she would have him, but he had kept silent, hoping that his other qualities might prove to be desirable in her eyes.

She said nothing for what felt like ages, and Hamish watched in silent terror, worrying that he had gone too far. This was the difficulty in ignoring the rules of polite society—one never knew when one might step on someone's toes.

"This is rather unlike you," she finally said.

His mouth twitched. "I know. Mother thinks you're a terrible influence."

Alice snorted. "A monstrous influence, I'm sure. She disapproves of our friendship?"

"Never mind about that." He ran his hand through his ginger hair, further evidence of the nerves that belied his steady voice and bold words.

"You were dutiful enough to ask me when it suited your mother. I suspect she rather expects you to be as dutiful now in forgetting about me." Alice reached forward, her fingertips managing to brush his before she leaned back into her high backed chair. He had a fleeting wish for it to have been their bare hands touching, but while her lace gloves were fingerless, he had not removed his. Therefore, the sensation had been fleeting and almost imperceptible. "I think it very good and right how dutiful you are Hamish, but I appreciate you making an exception in this case. I appreciate it very much."

He attempted to read something in her serene brown eyes, as his heart hammered in his chest. "Did you have this effect on your husband? Make him forget duty and propriety?"

Alice shifted in her chair, her eyes darting away from his. He had now drawn the parallel Alice had never thought to make—between himself and her husband.

He stretched out his arm to lift a gewgaw off Mrs. Kingsleigh's side table, examining it as if he cared for slightly passé Chinoiserie. "If not, the man must have been made of stone…or very accustomed to all manner of oddities."

Her voice sounded small and uncertain—a quality which Hamish was unaccustomed to associating with Alice, "You have no idea."

He might truly be her only friend and he had left her alone for weeks, so he could stew over his own hurt feelings. "If you have no one to speak to, you can always speak to me. About your husband's homeland, your husband…"

Alice may have opened these floodgates, but with her lips pressed together so tightly they were turning white, she looked as if she wished them closed. "You were correct: I had no right to inquire into your heart."

He set the Chinoiserie dog back on the table and deliberately pulled off his gloves and then folded them, draping them across his knee. She might wish him away, but it had taken him some time to work up the courage to come here and say his peace. He intended on following through with it. "You can ask me anything, Alice." His earnest avowal clearly made her jittery: the toe of her black patent boot bobbed gracelessly beneath her skirt. For once it was she that was discomfited. That made him feel strangely calm. "Are you brave enough to ask your matrimonial question again?" he asked, his voice low and unwavering.

She attempted a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. "I'm very brave generally," she hedged, "but today I seem to have a headache."

He nodded stiffly, hoping Alice could not read the emotion—the crushing disappointment—on his face. He had promised himself that he would be satisfied with her friendship, but Hope kept bubbling up in his often upset stomach. Hope that the woman he had once wished to claim by means of wealth and position, the woman who had become a totem for all that was different and wild and worth having in this world, might be induced to feel something true for him. In time at least. "It needn't ever be said if you don't want it to be."

"Oh, Hamish," she said, her voice breaking.

He was not even quite sure if she fully appreciated what was unsaid between them, but she looked and sounded overwhelmed with considerably more regret than she had the afternoon she had rejected him in front of all their mutual acquaintances. Indeed, on that day she had not seemed regretful at all, as if he would be very little inconvenienced by her rejection of him. The favorable comparison led him to suspect that she understood him at last. Understood, but still could not return his affection.

"You have enough worries," he said dismissively, as he unnecessarily straightened his jacket. He would not add worrying about his feelings to her list of burdens. He could save her that at least. "I'm only glad to be assured of your friendship."

He watched the pale patch of skin at the notch above her high neckline as she swallowed and assured him, "You shall always have that."

* * *

><p>Alice finished tucking Charlotte into bed. "Snug as a bug in a rug," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and bending down to kiss her little girl's brow. As she straightened up, Charlotte brushed at her mother's hair, already loosened for sleep, with her little hand.<p>

"Why isn't my hair red?"

"You take after your mummy," Alice said, wiggling her fingers over Charlotte's quilt and the little, warm chest underneath.

"But Uncle Hamish's hair is red." Alice pulled her hands back, settling them in her lap, watching Charlotte puzzle something out. "And Faither's. I want to be a ginger too."

"That is one wish I cannot grant, sweet one."

Charlotte's face set in determination, as if by force of will she might make herself be blonde no longer. "I like ginger."

Alice nodded and after taking a breath, responded aloud, "Yes, so do I. Gingers can be quite handsome, but you're a very pretty little blonde. I wouldn't trouble yourself over it."

Charlotte contemplated the ties on her quilt, pulling at them with her fingers. "I want to look like him—just a little."

Alice could not summon the courage to ask Charlotte who she meant to refer to: sometimes answering her child's questions was as daunting as facing the Jabberwock had once been and she lacked the armor to protect herself.

"Will I always be Uncle Hamish's little girl? Or will he go away like Faither?"

Alice's hand fluttered to Charlotte's forehead, brushing back her soft, loose curls. "Your Faither had no choice, Charlotte. He would much rather be with us."

"He died," Charlotte supplied with more honesty than Alice could rouse. "But I'd rather Uncle Hamish didn't go away as well."

Alice did not like the idea of Hamish going away either, but how was she to promise that would not be the case? Her mother had been right: there was no evidence of Hamish having a sweetheart, but there were many years ahead of them before Charlotte would be grown. Her mother sometimes hinted at Alice's encroaching age, but Hamish's age was no barrier to his marrying any young lady of his choice. Charlotte—and Alice—might be forgotten in time.

"I should like it if Uncle Hamish lived here with us, so we could play at pirates all day and he wouldn't have to go home for supper."

Alice leaned forward, reaching to turn the key on the gas lamp beside Charlotte's bed. As they were thrown into darkness and she stood up from the bed, she spoke, "I'm sure you would, my dear. Now, the song birds are asleep in their nests and so should you be. Goodnight and sweet dreams."

"Of cabbages and kings?"

"Whatever you might fancy," Alice agreed, as she pulled Charlotte's bedchamber door nearly closed.

Walking to her bedchamber, Alice brushed her fingertips along the wallpaper decorating the hall, more for assurance than actual unawareness or unfamiliarity with her surroundings. She found her way to her door easily, but the relief she had been expecting was minimal, as she closed it behind herself and leaned against it, palms pressed flush against the solid wood.

She could almost believe Charlotte to be collaborating with her mother. Except, she knew that was not the case. Charlotte's wish was sincere. But then, her mother presumably was sincere as well. When she spoke of Hamish, she spoke of Alice's happiness often enough for Alice to believe that her mother had more than material gain in mind in suggesting him as a potential husband for her. Her mother believed she would be happy with Hamish.

And Hamish. She was certain now that it was Hamish's wish as well. Or it had been several months ago, when she had prevented him from saying anything more on the subject. He had remained dutifully silent in the meantime, but sometimes she thought she caught him looking at her in a way that made her heart climb up into her throat. She had seen another man wear that look of admiration, adoration, and alarm—emotions having to do with the letter 'A' for the box marked 'A' for Alice. Or at least, that is how it had been hurriedly explained to her once, by another.

Yes, Hamish had made himself as clear as he was ever like to do, and there was nothing left but to face the truth, something she had been avoiding now for nigh on half a year. It was not so long ago that Alice would have laughed at the notion of being happily wed to Hamish. With his disagreeable digestion and fussy habits and stiff manners.

Alice did not like to compare Hamish to Tarrant, for she considered it unfair to both of them, but she had daily proof that Hamish could prove to be a much better husband than any of the gentleman in her acquaintance here in London. Lord Ascot had stood silently in support of her, though the world might find fault with him for it, seeing as she had behaved so shockingly at their garden party, disappeared without a trace, and reappeared with a child of unknown origin. He had been more than solicitous. More than dutiful. More than a friend to her in a time of need.

Given that, she now feared even contemplating whether a happy marriage to Hamish was possible. Afraid of her own answer. If Hamish could open himself to her, it should follow that Alice the Slayer should have the muchness to examine her own heart, but she did not feel strong enough to do it. She had not looked into her heart in quite some time. She may have misplaced the key altogether.

But to be loved again and love in return?

Alice was almost certain she would find no rest tonight, as visions of gingers danced through her head.

* * *

><p>The sound of Alice's raised voice very nearly caused Hamish to turn right around and walk back down the corridor and down the steps of the Kingsleigh townhouse. Indeed, he would have most likely turned tail and run if the serving girl had not already announced him. With the door swung wide, he could see that he faced a rather ominous prospect: all three Kingsleigh women at once.<p>

While Margaret Manchester was Alice's sister, since Alice's return he had only met with her once here in this house, and outside of it, though they moved in similar circles, he saw very little of Margaret or her husband, Lowell. Indeed, Hamish made it a practice to limit his contact with her husband. Lowell Manchester was no gentleman. Margaret was not as superior a creature as Alice, but she was an attractive woman and no doubt an attentive wife and mother. Therefore, he could not fathom why Lowell felt free to flirt with every wealthy widow, young flower, and parlor maid with a pretty face and a willing smile. Or to be so flagrantly blatant about it. He was unforgivably selfish, thinking only of his own…pleasure. Moreover, Alice had never said as much, but he sensed that Lowell made her uncomfortable, which was reason enough for Hamish to dislike the man. Hamish felt certain that he at least, would have been a better husband to Alice than that.

"Mrs Kingsleigh, Mrs. Manchester, Alice," he said, greeting them in turn, although Alice stared stalwartly at the Oriental rug beneath their feet, her face red and her hands clutched at her sides, as she failed to meet his bow.

"Good afternoon, Hamish. How kind of you to pay us a visit. Please sit down," Mrs. Kingsleighed said, gesturing towards a chair he often favored. It felt very domestic and cozy to have a chair always set aside for him in the Kingsleigh home, but he could not even enjoy this little moment of triumph with the air thick with tension.

"I'm very glad you're here, Hamish," Alice said, although she sounded joyless, taking away the bloom of pride he might have otherwise felt at having her pronounce this in company. "Perhaps you might settle a disagreement we were having."

He had no more sat down than he wished yet again that he had fled when he had the chance. A row between females? He had no wish to be involved in something as serious as that.

Margaret leaned forward with a small smile painted on her otherwise unsettled face, "It's a family matter, Alice."

"Hamish is as good as family," Alice retorted, at which Hamish twitched an awkward smile. "Is he not, Mother?"

Mrs. Kingsleigh's watery, blued eyed gaze danced between her two daughters and Hamish, alive with palpable anxiety. "Hamish, you'll have to excuse us. We were only just a little out of sorts when you arrived."

He was conscious of how quickly he was blinking before he responded, "Yes, I seem to have come at a bad time."

Alice held up a hand as if to stop him in case he attempted an escape. "Go ahead, Margaret. Tell Hamish what your plans for me are."

"Why must everything be about _you_, Alice," Margaret complained with a huff. "I'm thinking about what would be best for everyone."

"Everyone meaning you and Lowell," Alice spat back.

Margaret swung around to address Hamish, "I simply said that she and Charlotte might be happier in the countryside. We could set them up with a little cottage. Nothing extravagant, mind you, but Alice never cared for things like that anyway."

"She means to hide us away," Alice put in sharply.

"Charlotte would be more at home in the countryside," Margaret replied with measured calm, smoothing her hands over her deep violet skirts.

"Charlotte is my daughter and I know what is best for her."

"Well, since you insist on airing our family differences before Lord Ascot, I'll feel free to say that I think you're being a selfish child."

Alice's mouth dropped open. "Selfish? You only want us out of the way, so people might forget about us and think better of you."

"Girls," Mrs. Kingsleigh tried.

The bickering continued around him, an endless tit for tat that sounded like a high buzz in Hamish's ears. He could not focus on what was being said exactly, as he was losing himself in thought. Of course Margaret and her husband, who cared a great deal about scratching their way up the social ladder, would want Alice and her child to leave London.

Yet, as he pondered the possibility, he revolted against the thought as strongly as Alice did. It was a wretched, wretched plan. Never mind that his reasons for thinking it so were less than selfless.

"Where is Charlotte?" Hamish interrupted.

"Playing with my sewing box upstairs," Mrs. Kingsleigh supplied.

Hamish nodded. He would not wish Charlotte to walk in on this family discord.

"If I might offer my opinion?" No one looked too keen to hear it at this point, as the discussion had turned from him during the preceding minutes, but he continued undaunted, "Charlotte has only recently been uprooted from the only home she's ever known. The countryside is a fine place to grow up." He had an estate in the country that he had imagined sharing with Alice and Charlotte, thinking of the animals and plants Charlotte might befriend and the blessed peace he might share with Alice there, where one was not always running from one engagement to the next. "But, she seems happy enough here. Surely Alice does know best."

Alice smiled triumphantly back at her sister. "That is just as I was saying."

"Only, you did not say it with any measure of calm," her mother reminded her. "It's sometimes difficult to take you seriously, dear, when you fly into these tempers."

Alice did look as if she could shake her sister rather vigorously. Her eyes met his, as if to say—_how can I not be cross?_

If Margaret was not a woman and another man's wife, he would have been sorely tempted to be cross with her too. Should Alice and Charlotte be sent to some remote cottage, he would not see her. Perhaps ever. "Besides, Mrs. Manchester, I might personally have to object to your spiriting them away."

Margaret took him in quietly for a moment, her eyes scanning his person, as if searching for something. She finally responded, "I'll bow to your judgment, Lord Ascot."

"I'd rather you bowed to Alice's," Hamish offered, although by now the effort of presenting his opinions in this room full of females had left his voice sounding less certain than only a moment before. Alice seemed grateful nonetheless.

"I don't care who it is you listen to, only please go home and tell your husband that Charlotte and I won't be removing ourselves from this house anytime soon."

No, they were unlikely to leave this home in the near future. So, Hamish tucked away the notion of Alice and Charlotte walking along the garden paths of his estate with him. That was just so much nonsense. But, it was a comfort to know that he could turn his feet toward their street and meet with them in London whenever he pleased. She was not removing herself to live with some other gentleman, after all, which was something.

He wanted to protect her from those people who would try to change her—people like Margaret—he wanted to smooth the way for her and stand by her side. He was very different from her, but he was intrigued by those differences, not put off by them. And he might even help Alice fight her battles sometimes, since he was getting some better at fighting his.

Not the kind with sabres, of course: he was still hopeless at fencing. Yet another reason to avoid the club.


	6. Resolutions

Resolutions

"Who is that?" Alice asked, as Charlotte held the ginger haired doll aloft.

"Uncle Hamish."

Laughing, Alice reached out and caressed Hamish's neck, half of her fingers over his collar, the other half brushing his skin. He both thrilled in it and wished it would stop. When Alice was happy like this, Hamish's heart sometimes beat almost painfully fast, because in her enthusiasm, she often forgot to pay even cursory attention to propriety. She was like this so often nowadays. Coming to the Kingsleigh house was almost like a daily torment and at night he was left filled with the most _inconvenient_ thoughts. Thoughts that might shock even the unflappable Alice.

"It's a good likeness, isn't it?" she said, hooking one finger under his chin before turning back to nod at Charlotte's creation.

"The best I've ever seen," he finally managed to respond just as Charlotte pulled herself onto his knee and held the rag doll closer to his face for a proper inspection. "And you're quite sure you've had no help? You did this all yourself?" he asked, taking it from her and turning it about. The doll had a monstrously huge smile drawn on in black ink—evidence of which was also smeared across Charlotte's small hand. He was certain he had never smiled so widely in his life. This doll, though, made him feel as if he might like to do so.

"I may've had help with the hair," she confessed softly.

Hamish ran a finger over the orange yarn hair that was poked into the scalp. "I'm glad to hear it. You could hurt yourself with a needle."

"Unless I wear a thimble," Charlotte said brightly, having fixed upon a solution to needles being for girls older than her five—nearly five and a half—years. "Thimbles make it so you can do anything. I have a whole box of them. Would you like one?"

Hamish's gaze jerked upwards at Alice's sucked in sob. She was clutching her chest and the color had drained from her face. The sudden swing of her emotions made Hamish's gut clench.

"Alice," he said worriedly, as he carefully set Charlotte on the ground and stood up to follow Alice as she moved across the room with all due speed.

"I'm sorry," she panted, holding out a hand with her back to him.

He shifted on his feet, unsure whether he should close the distance between them or stay rooted to the floor where he stood. He hated to see her cry, and not just because crying females made him uncomfortable, which they did. No, he hated it, because her pain brought him pain. Real, acute pain.

"Charlotte, go find your grandmother." He waited until Charlotte, having cast round eyes up at her mother while gripping the Hamish doll in her arms, had left the room. "Alice…dear," he said, trying out the word that had threatened to fall from his lips too many times to stop and count. Her obvious distress caused it to slip in the vain hope that it might prove to be some comfort to her. But, then of course, it might cause her more distress than not.

She spun around and ended his uncertainty and unmanly lack of action by slipping into his arms, her head tucking into the space below his cravat, her breast pressed against his, her hands clutching at the back of his jacket as if for support. He hated to see her unhappy, but to have her in his arms…

He stiffly slid an arm around her shoulder, as his mind churned, unable to fully appreciate this new sensation. Charlotte might bring Mrs. Kingsleigh to this room with great speed. After all, he had not been specific about what Charlotte should do when she found her grandmother. And then what a predicament he would have placed Alice in, a predicament that would be his fault entirely.

"Are you unwell? Can I…can I get something for you?"

"I'm perfectly well."

He could feel each breath she took: her warm breath against his chest and the rise and fall of hers. It made his own come more quickly, and he clutched at her shoulder.

"Truly, you don't seem it."

Turning her face into the crook of his neck, she sniffed, murmuring, "It's just that she'll never know her father. She won't remember. Not properly."

He dared to press her more tightly against him, resting his chin against her simply chignoned hair. She smelled of lavender soap.

Generally Hamish harbored some jealousy for this man, who still possessed such a large share of Alice's heart. It was not a feeling of which he was proud, but he could not quite conquer it either. At this moment, however, he only felt sorry for Alice's husband, since Charlotte would never make a doll for him and he would never again have Alice's arms about him. "You'll tell her."

"I don't know whether that's enough," she said, slipping free of him somewhat, although still hovering within an arm's length.

Hamish schooled his face not to show his disappointment at the loss of her, as she wiped below her eyes with bare fingers. She no longer needed his embrace, but he could do something. He could be of use, he realized, as he slid his hand into his waistcoat and produced a white handkerchief.

"I have my own," she said, fumbling with her skirts until she pulled forth a matching white handkerchief. She dabbed briefly at her face, looking up at the ceiling to prevent more tears from spilling forth, before holding the handkerchief out before her in the flat of her left hand, so that his monogram in the corner was clearly displayed. He knew this handkerchief to be the one he had once given her, when she had wept over the uncertain future of her daughter. "For once, you see, I am not without."

It was only a handkerchief, and yet, seeing it there in her hand, seeing his initial and the careful way it was folded in her pocket, Hamish suddenly was inconvenienced by a sizable lump in his throat. It was his and was now hers, kept right at her side. It felt exceedingly intimate—such romantic nonsense, he chided himself even as he spoke, "I would give you another, Alice." He would give her everything.

She slid her handkerchief back into the folds of her skirt and then reached for his offered one, her fingers just barely brushing his as the transfer was made. He waited with bated breath as she pulled aside his jacket and found the pocket in his waistcoat, so that she might tuck his handkerchief back away. The undeniably indecent touch of her hand to his middle caused his breath to hitch in his throat and his nostrils to flare. He should stop her. He should step back away from her. The voice that urged him to do so, however, seemed very small and very far away. He was hearing voices now: as mad as Alice ever was.

Smoothing her hand over his pocket, she looked up, meeting his gaze. "You keep it, for you never know when I shall forget mine again."

She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them again, she did not look so sad anymore—there was some of the usual twinkle in her soft brown eyes, when she said, "No, I'm almost certain it's not enough…to live on memories and in the past. I know it isn't enough for Charlotte. It's you she thinks of, speaks of, asks after…"

Hamish did not know whether he should apologize, but he did not particularly care to do so. "I may not be her father, but I am…I am very fond of Charlotte, Alice. All always care for her," he finally managed. He felt more, but as usual, he could not fully bring himself to say entirely what he felt.

"I know it. I can't begin to tell you what that means to me," she said, reaching out to grasp his arm. "Hamish, we're both alive—you and I."

It was a rather obvious observation, but it stopped Hamish's breathing for a space.

"And I'm not sure I want to live in the past," she finished.

She was frightfully strong for a woman, he thought, feeling strangely disengaged from his body as he glanced down at her hand wrapped around his arm.

The feel of her other soft hand pressed to his face revived him enough to speak. "Alice…whatever are you doing?" he asked, his voice breaking as she ran her thumb along his freshly shaved jaw line.

"Trying something," she said, rocking forward on the balls of her feet until her lips ghosted over his.

He swallowed, as his eyes flew shut, and although the kiss was over before it seemingly began, he was afraid to open them again. He could feel Alice's hand tightly gripping his bicep and her breath against his lips. She had not moved away from him; she was still just a hairsbreadth away.

He struggled to say the right thing to put an end to this madness or to extend it indefinitely, but he could only barely compose his thoughts. "The clock is unusually loud." It's ticking was practically all he could hear above the rush of blood in his ears.

Alice laughed.

Her response was unexpected and a little bit unnerving; the sound forced his eyes open at last. Unspilt tears glistened in her eyes, but she unaccountably smiled back at him.

"Please don't tease me," he begged, attempting to draw himself up a bit taller, feeling secure at least in having an advantage in height, although he accomplished very little as he was still firmly in Alice's grasp.

"I wouldn't. Not like that. The clock's ticking—that's just the sort of nonsensical observation to which I am rather accustomed. That's all, Hamish," she said gently, tilting her head.

There was nothing nonsensical about it—it was a perfectly sensible observation on the raucous sound of the Kingsleigh's grandfather clock—but Hamish remained silent on the subject, preferring not to pursue it any further. What he wanted to pursue, what his fingers itched to do was trace the length of her back and… Propriety now only seemed an obstacle and not the lynchpin preventing the world from falling into chaos. _Did affection make radicals of all men?_

His eyes darted to the door, where Alice's mother and her daughter might still intrude at any moment.

She nudged his foot with hers. "Hamish?"

Her foot brushing against his, the drag of her skirts against his shins even with shoes and trousers in the way—it was too much. "Alice, I must warn you."

She bit back a smirk. "Must you?"

"Yes, I must warn you that I shan't remain unmovable if…"

"How shocking!" she teased, no doubt believing him incapable of doing anything remotely scandalous.

"Alice," he warned once more, the two syllables of her name sounding rough and unmeasured.

"Yes. Go on. If what?" she murmured, sliding the hand that had been pressed to his cheek down over his shoulder and finding a home underneath the lapel of his jacket, where surely she could feel his heart beating out of his chest.

"If you don't stop that immediately," he said, though he made no move to disengage himself from her. Though he should, certainly. Decorum demanded it. Not just decorum, but also the respect he held Alice in, for he had the greatest respect for Alice. Respect incongruously earned by her rejection of him, and therefore, it did not seem right to act on his baser desires. It would not be the gentlemanly thing to do.

She smiled, as her teeth dimpled the lower lip caught between them. "Go ahead. I give you permission to be bold." He could not be sure she was urging him to do what he desperately wanted to do, but her gaze did light on his lips for a moment before she began again, "I dare you."

"We shouldn't," he barely managed to voice, although his hand was already snaking up her back, over the row of tiny black covered buttons there, over the skin of her neck, into the fine hair just below her chignon. His breath came quickly at the thought of removing each pin until her hair hung loose down her back as it had when they were small. Loose and wavy, so he might shift his hands through it. "It's impossible," he reasoned aloud. Her mother, her mother and Charlotte, he hopelessly reminded himself, as she licked her lips, might come through the doorway at any moment.

"It's a very good thing then that I often believe in as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

He pressed his forehead to hers and watched her eyes close, her pale lashes fanning her cheeks as she tilted her head in anticipation, but for a moment he held still and waited. His one hand buried in her hair, his other at her narrow waist, while she grasped him back, her fingers entwined in his lapel and clutching at his arm. Their breathing made a shared experience. He waited for Alice to come to her senses. But Alice was not a sensible woman, anymore than she had been a sensible little girl.

_Damn the consequences_, Hamish thought, kissing her cheek first and then placing a soft off center kiss to the corner of her mouth. What was the use of making an idol of someone as independent as Alice if one did not act somewhat unconventionally as a result? Besides, they were once very nearly affianced. Surely a kiss, one small kiss would not be the ruin of them.

When he closed his eyes and let his lips touch hers fully, he swallowed nervously. His whole body was stiff as a board in sharp contrast with her soft lips, and his lips acted as if they had no notion what to do when confronted by another pair. But then he felt as much as he heard the encouraging little noise she made at the back of her throat—small enough that if they were not touching, he might not have heard it, but _oh_, they _were_ touching—and his lips closed more assuredly over her bottom lip, tugging just slightly.

He did not have to wait to see if she would respond in kind. He felt a spark shoot through him at the touch, at the realization that she was parting her lips for him, and he groaned mortifyingly loudly, his fingers twitching at her waist, urging her that much closer. Her kiss had barely qualified as such, but this! This was groundbreaking, rule breaking, thrilling. Hamish had committed very few transgressions in his lifetime, but if this was to be his only one, he meant to make the most of it.

His hand slipped from her hair, and he vaguely heard the tinny bounce of a pin as it hit the floor. He wanted to cup her cheek and draw his thumbs over her unmarred, velvety smooth cheeks. If he had known kissing Alice could be like this, he would have asked leave to kiss her before he had ever asked for her hand, he mused, as her tongue met his, drawing languorously over his until he thought he would lose all sense of control. If he had not lost it already.

He was finally forced to break the kiss, so that he might breathe—_how was it he had held his breath for so long?_—but he could not bear to part from her entirely, to go back to being Lord Ascot and Alice Hightopp, childhood acquaintances. Not yet. Their lips still brushed each others as she sighed into his mouth, and he moved to grip the hand curled over his heart, holding it in place even as he pulled back, pausing only to press one last kiss to the corner of her mouth. His eyes were still half closed, and he stared down at where he might see his feet if they were not hidden by the black skirts of Alice's gown.

"Dearest," he whispered, chancing a glance at her.

Her lips looked…kissed. He had just kissed Alice. Thoroughly.

"Well, you did warn me," Alice laughed a little nervously on a soft exhale.

He clutched her hand to his heart, wishing, hoping with every fiber of his being that she had felt what he felt. That this meant, that this could mean…

"And we're both very much alive, as I suspected," she added, squeezing his hand back.

Hamish was not much good at emotional declarations. Indeed, his previous offer to her had been carefully scripted so as to be devoid of all emotion while everyone they knew stood witness. This moment, however, seemed to call for one, and surely he could manage something when it was just them two.

He would have expected to be relieved when Charlotte ran back into the room, causing Alice to step free of his arms just in time for Charlotte to crash into her skirts and throw her arms up for Alice to lift her. Alice readily obliged, and there was no question of him saying something now. But, as she pressed a kiss to Charlotte's brow, she looked at him over her child's fair head in such a way that he wished very much he had been given just a few minutes more to say at least some of what he felt.

* * *

><p>Alice was warmly bundled up against the cold, as they sat outside her mother's townhouse in the inclement weather, but she was beginning to feel the cold nonetheless. She was not ready to admit it, however. Charlotte was taking a nap—an unusual activity for her active little girl, but she had worn herself out playing in the snow—and her mother was occupied inside. Sitting outside here with Hamish was a rare opportunity to have an uninterrupted moment or two with him, and she could not yet give it up.<p>

Hamish, on the other hand, was proving to be less successful at pretending he was not cold, as he rocked slightly in the cast iron garden chair, his hands tucked under his arms. She watched his breath make clouds in the air. Like candy floss, she mused with a bright smile.

"You're still smiling?" he asked with more bluster than she assumed he truly felt.

"Yes, I think I am, although I can't feel my mouth to be sure."

She was enjoying merely having a chance to observe him, this Lord Ascot with previously unimagined qualities. She had never thought very much of him and she had never given a second thought to the wisdom behind rejecting his offer of marriage, and yet, Hamish had proven to be so much more than a pompous, empty vessel. Somehow Hamish had become her favorite grown person. Alice should have known by now that people had an amazing ability to surprise.

"Well, you wouldn't be if you'd gotten a snowball to the face earlier," he lectured with furrowed brows.

She pushed back a strand of her hair that was blowing into her eyes. "Charlotte has shockingly good aim for a five year old. Don't you think?" Rather like her father, who could toss a powder puff with amazing accuracy in a pinch. The thought did not make her tear up, however, as it would have once: she only continued smiling to herself, indulging in fleeting nostalgia.

"Her aim's _too_ good. I wouldn't want to play her at cricket."

Alice pushed at his knee with her grey, wool mittened hand. "You wouldn't like to play anyone at cricket."

She could see from the quick twitch in his brow that the cold had not frozen the muscles that were conditioned to respond to impropriety. His nervous glance down at her hand belatedly reminded her that such familiarity was still not entirely appropriate or customary between them. Spending as much time as she had in Underland, her sense of propriety had begun to erode, and it had never been well developed to begin with. No one would think anything of a touch such as this Below, but Hamish was a man of Above and he continued to be unnerved by it. She counted on it merely being conditioning, on his not truly minding, and let her hand drop for the time being.

"Would you like me better if I did?"

His face had gone blank, and as usual it left Alice uncertain what to make of such questions. "No, I despise cricket," she said with a flippant little toss of her head.

"What _would_ make you like me better?"

"_Hamish_," she said, her tone unintentionally evoking the regretful way her mother sometimes delivered a correction to Charlotte. "You do know I like you. Don't you?"

"Alice, I'm in love with you."

He said it so quickly that for a moment she thought she had imagined it entirely. A distinct possibility, she supposed, for she was always being reminded of her overly active imagination. Yet, while his cheeks were already red with the cold, his eyes—his bright blue eyes—told the story of what that statement and every second that passed after cost him.

"I know." It felt as if the brisk wind had almost stolen the words from the air. It sounded like a whisper, although she felt certain she had spoken loudly enough.

"Should I stop?" he asked, leaning forward in his chair and seizing her hands, although she could only just feel the pressure of his touch through her thick mittens.

She wordlessly shook her head 'no'. Whatever madness this was, Alice's curiosity demanded that she follow the bouncing ball.

His knees pressing into her skirts as he leaned forward was strangely distracting, and she looked down very nearly entranced. Alice would have wished him closer still. He was not as close as he had been when he had kissed her, when he had smelled of aftershave and brandy and a bit of the London smog that hung about his coat—there was nothing like it in all of Underland, and yet it was vaguely familiar. She fancied it reminded her of her father somewhat.

"If you would rather we just remained friends…"

"No, I wouldn't," she hastily interrupted. "I'd rather be more. We are more." As she said the words, she knew them to be true, and not just because the thought of their kiss a fortnight ago sent the bread-and-butterflies aflutter in her stomach once more. No, she could imagine a domestic scene much like Charlotte had proposed, where Hamish did not have to leave at supper, where he was always at her side. A father to her child, and she and he equal partners in all things, and it made her feel something she had never expected to feel again. "Are we not?" she asked a little shyly, as she looked up from her skirts and his trousers to meet his astonished gaze.

It seemed she had rendered him fully mute.

"I don't kiss _every_ man who enters our parlor," she prodded.

Her comment did not seem to put him at ease, however, and she had to hold onto his hands to keep him from letting go of her. He frowned frightfully and shifted awkwardly in his chair, sputtering, "Of course not. I didn't mean to insinuate any such thing."

Her teeth chattered, as she gave his hands what she hoped was an encouraging squeeze. They could both use a cup of hot tea, but she did not feel they could go inside now, once they had begun to truly speak. Hamish might never start again, and she did not know whether she had the muchness anymore to start again for him.

"You're cold," he said, nodding at her.

"A little." She would not be surprised to find that her lips had turned blue in fact.

"Would you rather go inside?"

"Not until you answer me."

He cleared his throat before beginning, "I've momentarily lost my train of thought, I'm afraid."

Alice sighed, "They're very tricky sometimes. The stations can pass you right up." He was not ruffled by her nonsense; he was so accustomed to it now. She even thought perhaps that his mouth threatened to quirk at the corners.

He rubbed his gloved thumbs over the backs of her mittens, lowering his voice to say, "I would like very much to be more than friends. My wish is still the same…for you to be my wife."

"Still?"

"I've always wished it," he confessed.

"Since I was five?" she asked, her frozen cheeks blossoming with a smile.

Hamish chuckled, although she could tell he would rather she stop with her teasing and answer him definitively, which made her wickedly want to continue for just a moment longer.

"Fifteen, perhaps," he offered.

"Close enough," she shrugged. "Is this a proposal then, Hamish?"

"A rather unusual one, I own it. The pair of us huddled in the freezing cold," he scoffed.

Alice wondered what he had in mind instead, whether he had something planned. She wondered if he would ever tell her about it and what she might have to do to draw it out of him. "I like oddities. But, don't you intend to kneel down?"

He looked at the ground beneath their feet, covered in fresh, white, powdered snow.

"It's the expected thing," she pressed.

"In the snow?" he scrambled.

"Are you afraid of getting your knees wet?" Alice teased, before closing the distance between them. She did not truly require speeches or grand gestures. Three times Alice had been proposed to. Two out of three being nigh on perfect were not bad odds. "Never mind the kneeling then," she murmured as his hands slipped about her waist.

"Is your answer still the same?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

She shook her head 'no' and whispered her answer to his offer against his cold, wind chapped lips, "Yes."

* * *

><p>No doubt the look on his face when he seated himself at her side spoke volumes. Hamish was not terribly emotive; nevertheless, she would expect him to look decidedly more cheery the day after their engagement. Cheery he was not, however.<p>

"You've told your mother," she said with arched brows.

"Well, Alice, what else could I do?" he huffed. "Bring you home one day unannounced?" Hamish could almost see his mother's horrified face, should he attempt such a plan.

"She's apoplectic, isn't she?"

"She's…not used to the idea," he hedged.

"Heavens," Alice frowned. "I may be a little mad, but not so mad as to think she looks favorably on this development after I humiliated her by rejecting you."

Alice was right: his mother anger was all about how the rejection of his offer had affected her, not her son.

"How are we to live under the same roof?" Alice looked as if she had just sucked on a sour lemon. "Forgive me, Hamish, but your mother is impossible." She no doubt disliked the prospect of cohabitation as much as his mother did.

Indeed, his mother had threatened to immediately decamp for the unoccupied dowager's house on their estate, when he sprung the news on her with sweat breaking out on his brow. Although, if his mother did leave, it might not be all bad: at the very least he would not need worry about the prospect of Alice and his mother battling it out each and every day.

"My mother will come round, I dare say, when she begins to think again on the prospect of attractive grandchildren," he said, attempting to smile, but failing miserably.

His mother had planted doubts in his mind. Doubts he could not shake.

Looking down at his cuffs, he tugged on them unnecessarily, as he continued, "That is…if that is the sort of marriage you had in mind."

Alice squinted at him, "What do you mean?"

He was unconcerned about the material reasons his mother had put forth as cause for Alice's acceptance, for he was familiar enough with Alice to know that would not induce her to accept anyone. There must be another reason altogether. "If you want to marry so that Charlotte might have…not a father, I know she has a father, had a father," he groped.

"Hamish?" Alice said, her voice getting higher.

Hamish's mouth was dry and his Adam's apple was bobbing convulsively against his too tight cravat. "I mean to ask if we are only to be," he paused, staring at a spot on the wall over her shoulder, "_companions_." He had been up half the night pacing his room, trying to come to terms with such a probability. But, what he really needed, what his male pride demanded was that Alice want _him_.

It was hard to believe that she might. "When you rejected my proposal eight years ago, my mother assumed you didn't find me handsome enough. My _mother_ thinks I'm not handsome enough."

He wanted to be stern and cool, but as she reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, her short nails finding the back of his neck, his eyes drifted shut. This was just the sort of domestic moment he had begun to pin his hopes on before his mother spoke reason to him.

"Enough." He finally met her eye once more at her command. She looked as serious as his nanny, when she said, "I don't want to hear one more word on that." Her nails scratched lightly. "I like gingers," she whispered almost invitingly, but he made a great show of shrugging her arm off.

He was secretly chuffed to receive such a compliment, but he could not afford to lose himself in self-congratulation. So, he tried once more to test the honorable solution he had come up with before falling into a fitful sleep. "If you'd rather things merely be…companionable between us, I can adopt Charlotte and name her the heir to the estate. You know I'll see to her education and inheritance whatever the case. I'm not marrying you to secure an heir to a title."

She smirked, as if he was terribly amusing, and ignoring his rebuff from a moment earlier, scooted close enough to him that he could feel her hips press against his through her voluminous skirts. "I hadn't imagined you were. Although, there is one little person I know, who will be greatly disappointed by your monastic plans," Alice murmured, cocking her head at him, as he let her slip her hand into his. Hamish could not make out her meaning, but she obviously understood his, which was embarrassing enough. So, he kept his face fixed in a mask of neutrality, as she continued, "When I told Charlotte we were to be married, she immediately began to dream of a little sibling to rule over. I now find you'd deny her the pleasure. You're usually so accommodating."

He pulled her hand into his lap. "You told her?"

"And Mother. How do you think you've managed to get me alone for this long? Mother doesn't want us to be disturbed.

If Charlotte was not quite delighted with the arrangement, he would have been deeply wounded and concerned for her happiness. "Charlotte is pleased?" he asked quietly.

"She's over the moon. We all are, Hamish. Do try to look a little more cheerful. I know I shall be a very troublesome wife, but play to my vanity for the time being and pretend not to have realized it just yet."

It warmed his heart that Charlotte and even Mrs. Kingsleigh were happy with the prospect, and yet, he could not quite feel what he ought in this moment, and he knew she could read it in his face, though he tried to remain unreadable. Looking down at their joined hands, he saw that no ring graced her slender finger. He still desperately wanted to amend that, imagining what Granny's sapphire ring might look like against the pale of her flesh. That might be a foolish wish.

Hamish despised long speeches—he would never make a splash in politics, yet another disappointment for his mother—so he drew a deep breath when he prepared to say what he felt he must. He hurried through it so she might not interrupt him to disagree again, "I know money and titles are nothing to you. I know my not being handsome enough means very little as well. I know that the crux of the matter is that you don't find me particularly interesting, and there isn't much I can do about that. I can make myself better—and I congratulate myself on having done so to some degree—but _not_ more interesting."

"Interesting? Why, you're quite a puzzle to me a good deal of the time. I imagine it will take a lifetime for me to properly understand you, but I _love_ you already."

His heart beat quick at the avowal. The first of its kind.

"You're quite a puzzle as well," he returned affectionately. He would gladly spend a lifetime attempting to understand his Alice.

"Yes. We will confound each other daily. Think how entertaining that will be."

Ridiculous, contrary Alice. He wanted to kiss her.

"Besides, one never knows what will happen," she said with a little less cheerfulness. "We might never have the good fortune to be blessed with an heir. My father certainly wasn't. But, we needn't truly discuss contingencies now. Must we?"

She was being very kind to pretend not to understand his blatant lack of confidence. To turn things around, so that he might recover his dignity at very little personal cost. He loved her all the more for it, for he knew Alice to be blunt by nature, even careless. She was trying, really trying, and for his benefit.

If he could sometimes smooth the way for Alice, so that people did not find so much fault with her, perhaps she might also smooth the way for him, so that he could feel more like a man. Bestow some of the strength she possessed in spades upon him without drawing overt attention to her manipulations. Clever, clever woman. It struck him that both Charlotte _and_ Alice would be managing him in the future. It was not an unpleasant outlook.

"I rather think we mustn't entirely disaffect your mother by announcing our engagement and Charlotte as your heir in one fell swoop," she urged in mock solemnity.

"I would do it in a moment, Alice."

Alice cupped his cheek. "I know you would, and I love you for it. But Hamish, _dearest_, this is all so much nonsense and you mustn't ever listen to your mother again. Do you understand me?" she asked. "It's my first order as your fiancée and I mean to issue quite a number of them."

He leaned down until his forehead touched hers and bestowed upon her the smile he should have worn as soon as he saw her face. He should have trusted her to know her own mind. Her own heart. "You're terribly bossy."

"I fear there's no correction for it. You'll have to forgive me."

It did not matter in the least: he was rather accustomed to bossy women. "Gladly, my dear."


	7. Epilogue

Epilogue

In the end, Hamish's mother decided against attending her son's wedding. From what she heard though, it was a sorry affair. Certainly nothing as grand as what she would have planned if anyone had asked her. Which they did not.

But what could one expect from a Kingsleigh, when the family was barely a step above trade?

In that vein, Alice _did_ prove to be a rather frugal mistress of the Ascot family estate—a surprising development, given that she was quite certain the uppity young woman had married her son for material reasons. Although, she could not find fault with her careful maintenance of household finances, she did wish Alice had not been so penny-wise in her wedding plans. An orchid or two might have shed some elegance on their wedding breakfast at least, and if Hamish's chosen bride had come to her properly contrite and dutiful, she might have even given her several of her own prize orchids in return. As it was, the wedding was shabby, and that reflected poorly on the family. Or it would have if anyone worth impressing had even attended. Which they had not.

Not even the Manchesters could hardly be counted nowadays as a family of standing what with Margaret making a fool of herself with a footman if the gossip was to be believed.

Lord and Lady Ascot very rarely had anyone smart over for dinner either. Professors and photographers and artists and all sorts of ne'er-do-wells that were supposed to be amusing or interesting or some thing or another, but whom she suspected Alice found wandering the streets. The dinners served these vagabonds both in town and in the country were simply dreadful—she worried endlessly about Hamish's delicate digestion—the conversation was hopelessly peculiar, and the children were allowed to recite poems and tell riddles long after good little children should be in bed, so perhaps it was a blessing that Alice did not have sense enough to invite the people she ought. The less good people who knew about her son's odd wife, the better.

Yes, the match was decidedly lackluster. She could count on each finger a young lady who would have been more suitable for Hamish. Why just think of Anna with the family fortune in banking, Grace, the heiress, with the beautiful estate in Derbyshire, or Elizabeth, who knew how to keep up such charming pleasantries at teatime. She would have been proud to have welcomed any of those young ladies as a daughter-in-law. And yet, he persisted in saying how _happy_ Alice had made him. As if happiness was all that mattered in this world.

At least the children were handsome enough. Not quite as pretty as she would have liked perhaps. Both the boys were gingers, which did not seem entirely fair with that daughter of hers flouncing about with lovely, loose, blonde curls, but they promised at least to surpass their father in good looks, which was all she had ever truly hoped for out of the union after all.

In wits, however, the boys were just as lacking as their father, the original fool, who had been lured into marriage by Alice's feminine wiles. They would persist in being taken in by every mad thing that monstrously tempered little girl told them. Rocking horse flies in the garden and roses that traded insults and rabbits with timepieces. All so much useless nonsense, when they should be studying maths and geography and Latin. But when she had complained to her son—a very reasonable criticism that any loving grandmama might make—that Charlotte was filling little Arthur and Henry's impressionable minds with utter rubbish, he had retorted that he was glad to hear it, that Alice had filled his mind with very similar rubbish once upon a time and he was much better off for it.

She doubted _that_ very much.

The End


End file.
